


Hotter Than Mauritius

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: British Comedy RPF, British TV Celebrities RPF, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Paul has just got back from a holiday in Mauritius with his new 22-year-old girlfriend. All the newspapers are talking about it. In fact, the newspapers just won't leave him alone. Back in cold and rainy London, and disguised by his hat and hooded coat, he sneaks out for an early-morning rendezvous with his secret lover, Great British Bake Off co-host Noel Fielding.





	Hotter Than Mauritius

It was cold and it was damp, and it had been in London for most of the week. It was misty too and visibility was very low, so, in many ways, it was a perfect meeting opportunity for two men who wished to remain anonymous. One man who would normally stand out in the fog like a lighthouse's beacon, with pale skin, black hair and wildly decorated clothing, was today considerably more dowdy. Fielding didn't want to be seen by anyone who knew him and he knew that no-one would notice him like this.

The comedian sighed, his breath quickly becoming vapour in the air. Somehow, he didn't feel out of place dressed like this. It was almost as if he was a nothingness, as though he blended seamlessly into his surroundings and almost ceased to exist. He enjoyed the feeling. How very _goth_ of him. Long gone were the brightly-coloured shirts of electric blue with pink smiley faces or baby pink with ice-cream cone decoration, incongruous with this bleak and grey landscape. He drew a dark jacket around his shoulders and pulled a navy beanie further down over his forehead. "Hey blue eyes," he called out into the fog. "Come over here, it's freezing!"

"Don't call me that," came a hushed voice, a man emerging from out of nowhere. "People might catch on."

" _Yes_ ," Noel thought to himself, " _Because it's not like half of the British population have blue eyes - only you do, Paul_ ." He rolled his eyes at the other man. "And what would you prefer? Cake cake?" he teased, mocking the pet name his new lover was said to have given him, that _is_ , if you believe everything you read in the Daily Mail. He hadn't actually asked Paul for himself - he hadn't really asked him _any_ details about his new relationship. Noel had convinced himself that he hadn't wanted to come across as nosey, but in matter of fact, it hurt him more than a little to think that he wasn't the only love of Paul's life.

"You can knock _that_ off as well," Hollywood snapped slightly, clearly tiring of the jokes.

"Where's the car?"

"I had to walk," the baker explained, "Number plate recognition in this car park. The press would be on to me like flies around shit. They've been following me everywhere."

Paul wasn't as fortunate as Noel - he was the hottest property in town and journalists would, almost literally, break their necks to get photographs of him doing something he shouldn't be. How the hell they _ever_ found out about Mauritius. He too was togged up to the nines; hefty coat, woolly hat and hood up. Dressed like this even, he was still spotted in the heavy snow in Warsaw, during the filming of his City Bakes programme. People recognised him _everywhere_ . Thank god he wasn't a wanted man. But he _was_ putting his neck on the line being here.

"So you're expecting us to... Out here? You're having a laugh. It's brass monkeys."

"Don't _start_ , Noel. You wanted to see _me_."

"Alright..." Fielding began. "Alright, _blue eyes_ ," his voice dropped to a whisper. He slowly took down the older man's hood, revealing, contrary to his reluctant attitude, an eager face. Hollywood wanted this just as much as he did. Paul's Regatta anorak was unzipped just enough to leave an opening, and Noel grabbed the material either side of the zip as if they were handles and pulled the pastry chef forward into a forceful kiss, unzipping the coat altogether.

The surprise meeting of lips meant that neither man, for a split second, had time to close their eyes. Both pairs were bright blue and vibrant beyond belief in this dull light as they gazed into one another's pupils. Noel revelled in the vulnerability he saw in Paul's, shimmering with moistness from the many mixed emotions he was feeling - terror, confusion, lust, desire - for that one tiny moment before he shut them. The comic suddenly didn't feel _quite_ so insecure about Paul's relationship with 22-year-old Summer. He knew Paul wouldn't be risking everything by coming here if he didn't love Noel too.

Besides which, Paul was hard in his jeans. Noel had noticed as they had pulled away from yet another tongue-hungry kiss. He pulled him closer, hands firmly grabbing his jean-clad arse. With one hand remaining on his backside, he began to caress his cock through the denim with the other. The baker was quick to start work on his own belt, dying to free his stifled erection. Successfully popping the button on his fly, Hollywood wasted no time in pushing the trousers and boxers past his hard and desperate dick.

Fielding wrapped a cold hand around the warm shaft of his co-presenter's cock, eliciting a moan of both shock - from the coldness - and pleasure, the tone of the noise delighting Noel in its raw 'scouseness'. When Paul was with Noel, he was himself - no heirs and graces, no pretences and no watching his language like he had to on the show. "Fuck yes," the older man growled, a further testament to this fact, "I love the way you play with it. Men know how to _please_ other men, don't they Noel?" He waited for the presenter to nod before he proceeded to undo his black skinny jeans.

Soon they were both somewhat undressed and Noel wanted to remove Paul's trappers hat. Whilst the furry frame around his face made him look like an awfully cute Eskimo, he yearned to see the silver hair he found so sexy, contrasting against a permanently bronzed skin, more brown than usual from recent exploits in Mauritius. But Hollywood had begged him not to take it off for fear of being recognised, and Fielding had to make do with the _feel_ of it alone. He slid his fingers beneath the hat and threaded them through Paul's gelled grey hair, still wet from his morning shower, as they kissed and touched. They still had their coats on, and most of their trousers, bar for the foot of exposed skin between belly and thigh.

They were masturbating each other quite quickly and, whilst they wish they could have slowed down a touch and savoured the experience a little more, they were both fully aware of the fact that they were in public, in a covered car park at five o'clock in the morning, and that not getting caught was the name of the game. Being picked up by the police for this sort of thing is embarrassing enough when you _aren't_ famous, but if the papers get hold of a story like this when you _are_ , it's goodnight Vienna - it's the end of your career, or perhaps the beginning of your career as a gay icon - either way, they didn't want to find out what would happen if they did.

Noel was the first to finish, as he usually was - Paul's big baker arms were strong and knew how to get the job done. Watching those hulkish hands, so dark and tanned, squeezing his long and pale cock and kneading it gently as if it was dough in his fingers, was so arousing for Fielding. It sounded ridiculous, but it was true. The chef treated sex much the same as he treated baking - the strokes and movements needed to be soft and yet strong, light and yet firm, for the best results. Hollywood had _achieved_ that result in only so many strokes and he would follow suit soon after. He came, panting, in Noel's grip. "Shit," he cursed as he came all over the goth's skinny jeans.

"It's alright," the comedian told him, "I'll just say it's paint." The Mighty Boosh star was fairly well known for dabbling in art - it was a believable story. "Chill out, Paul," he spoke calmly, seeing that his colleague had become all the more agitated.

"I just worry, that's all," the Merseyside lilt was strong within his voice. It never failed to charm Noel, who was helping to tidy them both up, nodding at what Paul was saying. "I'm sorry I can never relax with you, Noel," he lamented. "I'm just frightened someone will see us and see what we're doing."

"What _are_ we doing?" Fielding grinned. "We're talking," he answered his own question and, pointing at Hollywood and back at himself again, added. "We're both _fully_ dressed and we're just having a chat with one another," he winked. "Chatting about Mauritius."

They stood for so many seconds without exchanging words, coming down from their high. They checked their phones to see if anyone had tried to make contact over the last half an hour, making sure they weren't being missed by anyone. And now, they would fill the emptiness of the next ten minutes with inevitable post-coital small talk. But Noel loved it. He couldn't pretend he didn't love _any_ time he got to spend with Paul.

"How _was_ Mauritius, anyway?" Noel asked him, the first to break the silence.

"Not as hot as this," Paul replied, cracking a smile at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a work of fiction involving real people written by myself - it is a completely made-up fantasy and is in no way intended to cause offence.


End file.
